Sherlock Goes to Dixie
by NotesfromaClassroom
Summary: When Mycroft opens a restaurant in New York, he becomes a suspect in the murder of a prominent food critic. It's up to Sherlock and Joan to sort out the truth...even if that means taking a road trip through the American South.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Opening Night**

**Disclaimer: All for love, not for profit.**

Joan Watson descends the stairs in a percussion of stiletto heels. From where he is sprawled on the sofa in the parlor, Sherlock Holmes calls out.

"It's a restaurant opening, Watson, not an invitation to a royal ball. Your Christian Louboutins seem a trifle overdressed."

"Speaking of dressed," Watson says as she strides into the room pulling a mohair sweater over her asymmetrical silk shift, "you aren't going like that, are you?"

Holmes sweeps his gaze over his torso and then looks up at her.

"Why not? I am adequately covered, even in the opinion of someone with excessively prudish sensibilities such as yourself."

"You're in a t-shirt," Watson says, wrinkling her nose. "One I saw you wearing yesterday. This is an important night for your brother. I thought you wanted to make amends."

The mention of Mycroft makes Holmes uneasy. As glad as he is for their recent tentative rapprochement, Holmes can't help but feel as if Mycroft is waiting to spring something particularly onerous or unpleasant on him. A request to visit their father, perhaps. Another private dinner invitation to Watson.

He's still uncomfortable imagining the meal Mycroft already shared with Watson—the one where Sherlock had been the main topic of discussion, the one where Watson had suggested that getting his attention was the key to getting to know him. A ridiculous comment, implying as it does that he is unobservant. Nothing could be further from the truth. The Christian Louboutins, for instance. Watson almost never wears them—not because they are uncomfortable, but because they are an expensive indulgence, an uncharacteristic showy extravagance that embarrasses her and keeps her from enjoying them more often.

Yet here she is wearing them, her finest shoes, the rest of her apparel impeccable. The idea that the evening is important to her is surprisingly disagreeable.

"We did make amends," Holmes says. "The past is forgotten. Not literally, of course, but figuratively. Otherwise I wouldn't have agreed to attend tonight."

"In a t-shirt."

"You know me, Watson. Comfort over style. However, if it makes _you_ more comfortable, I will put on a freshly laundered one."

"If you are," Watson says, opening her clutch and looking inside, "you need to do it now or we will be late."

Holmes opens his mouth to point out that the brownstone is a two minute walk to the nearest subway station, that the A and C trains into the city run every seven minutes this time of night, that the walk from the station in Manhattan to Mycroft's new restaurant is less than a block. No hurry necessary.

Watson shifts, the heel of her right shoe coming down harder than normal. Irritation?

"Back in a sec," he says and is rewarded with a look of relief crossing her face.

The trip into the city takes more time than Holmes anticipated. The A line is undergoing weekend maintenance, something he would have known if he'd checked. Not like him to fly blind this way—something must have distracted him. By the time he and Watson exit at 14th Street, the sun is setting and a chilly breeze is whirling bits of paper along the sidewalk.

Two weeks before Halloween and New York is enjoying a warm spell. A respite, really, before the miserable cold to come. Not that New York is colder or more miserable than, say, London in winter, though Holmes is fully aware—because Watson reminds him often—that he carries his own internal weather with him wherever he is.

Watson shivers and crosses her arms in a vain attempt at increasing her warmth by decreasing her body mass's exposure to the chill. Without comment, Holmes slides his arms from his jacket and offers it to her. Her face pinches into an unreadable expression—and for a moment he thinks she is going to refuse the jacket. Then with an odd snort, she takes it, slipping it over her shoulders.

"I should have come better prepared," she says.

"Like me, you may find this event oddly distracting."

"I find this event exciting," Watson says, sounding like a school master correcting a wayward student. Holmes lifts an eyebrow in response.

"Exciting is when an unidentified murdered body shows up in the morgue," Holmes corrects her. "A puzzle to be solved, a criminal found and arrested. That's true excitement, Watson, not nibbling on some overblown celebrity chef's fanciful imaginings."

Watson darts a glance in his direction.

"You really ought to widen your interests," she says. "There's more to life than solving crime."

"I have many interests," Holmes says, stepping off the curb into the crosswalk. "Indeed, I am more widely read than the majority of people. Unlike them, however, my interests are connected. Rather than random, scattered bits of knowledge, mine are catalogued and sorted in the service of making the world safer from criminal elements."

His comments are factual and straightforward but Holmes is certain Watson will look askance—_roll her eyes_, as it were. When he turns to look at her, he sees that he is right. Eye rolling indeed.

"Here we are," he says, indicating sleek glass double doors with a brightly lit sign overhead that says "Blossom."

Mycroft's new restaurant is his first in America. Like his five other ventures in the UK, Blossom is upscale, touting a well-known chef and sufficient ambience to garner notice from serious food critics. Unlike his other restaurants, Blossom specializes in regional cuisine from the American South. A curious choice for an Englishman, though Mycroft's choice of New York is just as surprising.

"It gives me an excuse to play on this side of the pond," Mycroft said when Holmes first heard his plans.

"You consider risking your money in a business with a high chance of failure mere _play_," Holmes said, but Mycroft simply laughed, refusing to be riled.

Apparently the risk is worth it. Since opening three weeks ago, the place has been packed each night, online reservations listing the first available seating weeks in the future. Tonight is an exception—the official opening—and Watson hands an engraved invitation embossed with the image of a magnolia flower to the hostess. With a smile, she leads them to a small table near the kitchen door.

The inside of the restaurant is a contrast to its minimalist exterior. The plaster walls are pale lavender, the high ceiling covered with ornamental pressed tin squares. The artwork on the walls is varied but all identifiably from the American South—an antique appliqued quilt folded and hung on a dowel, several Romare Bearden collages grouped together, a scrolled iron gate by Philip Simmons mounted in a corner. Holmes nods in approval.

As they are seated, Mycroft approaches and holds out his hand to Watson.

"Joan," he says, letting his fingers linger in her palm. "Thank you for coming."

Even in the dim light Holmes can see Watson blush.

"We wouldn't miss it," she says, darting a glance at him. With a start, Holmes realizes that she is giving him his cue.

"Indeed we wouldn't," he says.

Mycroft narrows his eyes at him as if doubting his sincerity. "For tonight the chef has prepared a tasting menu, but you can order from our regular menu if you prefer."

He hands them each a folded printed card with the same embossed magnolia flower on the front, then moves away to greet other guests. The menu is inside, and on the back is a short biography of the chef, Travis Wilkerson, who grew up in rural North Carolina but has worked in New York for a decade in several notable restaurants. Blossom is his first time as head chef, and according to the biography, he is updating recipes from his childhood by adding a modern twist.

"The tasting menu," Holmes says when a waiter comes up to take their order. "Without the wine pairing for me. Watson?"

He sees the wheels of her mind turning. It's touching, really, how she rarely drinks around him, as if he will be tempted by her imbibing. He hastens to reassure her that he doesn't mind if she has a glass of wine with her meal.

The first course arrives right away. With a flourish, the nattily dressed waiter sets down small plates of sautéed shrimp drizzled with a spicy tomato reduction, the chef's version of a traditional shrimp cocktail.

"This morning these shrimp were swimming off the Carolina coast," the waiter says.

"How unfortunate for them," Holmes mutters. Across the table, Watson gives an undisguised snicker.

The other courses come more slowly—fried slices of polenta-like grits, a shredded kale salad, a mound of pulled pork dressed with vinegar and pepper flakes, and for dessert, gooey pecan pie. Holmes has to admit that the food is an improvement on his usual dinners—cold cereal or ethnic take-out. Watson, too, seems to enjoy it. She keeps up a pleasant patter, mostly stories about meals she recalls sharing with her family—epic Chinese feasts on holidays and cozy meals prepared by her grandmother.

Throughout, Mycroft moves around the crowded room, chatting with customers and refilling wine glasses. He's always been the more self-assured—the one with an instinctive understanding of people and how to relate to them, as extroverted as Holmes is introverted, but with as keen a mind as his younger brother.

No, not as keen. Keener. In his private musings Holmes can admit that. Mycroft's academic achievements are impressive, his intuition flawless.

Except in the matter of love. There the brothers share a similar myopia about women. Or at least the bad luck to get duped in the past.

Mycroft passes their table, giving Watson a smile.

From the kitchen comes a loud bang and Mycroft scurries through the door. Almost at once Holmes hears him shouting—and even louder, another voice. Another bang, and then Mycroft appears again at the door, his face red.

If any other patrons are aware of the noise, no one turns to look. Watson, however, says, "Do you think we should check on him?"

What Mycroft does in his own business is none of their concern. Holmes is about to say so when he hears his brother's voice raised again, this time at a man sitting alone at a table beside a window.

"—unwelcome and uninvited," Mycroft says to the man. "I'll ask you to leave now!"

People are craning their necks to watch the argument. Conversations fall silent. The only noise is the distant clanging in the kitchen and an occasional clink of a fork on a plate.

Slowly the man rises.

"You'll be sorry," he says loudly enough for Holmes to hear. Then he steps to the door and exits. At once the noise in the restaurant resumes.

"What was that about?" Watson says, and Holmes shrugs. It's the kind of drama that holds no appeal. A simple misunderstanding, the gears of social discourse grinding to a halt for some unremarkable reason.

"Dunno," he says, lifting a fork of pecan pie to his mouth. "But it has nothing to do with us."

Eight hours later he's proven wrong when the phone wakes him up. With one bleary eye he notes the caller ID: the NYPD precinct phone number. Instantly Holmes sits up in bed, alert. The evening might not be a total waste after all.

"Yes, Captain Gregson?"

But the voice on the other end of the line isn't the captain's.

"Sherlock, I need you right away."

"Mycroft?"

"I'm being questioned by the police."

And then like an afterthought, he adds, "On suspicion of murder."

**A/N: Hello again, "Elementary" fandom! I had so much fun hearing from the terrific fans here when I wrote "Sherlock Goes to School" that I decided to wander back over with a new story. I hope you enjoy it! Thanks for letting me know what you think!**

**Thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for her suggestions. Check out her many stories in my faves.**


	2. Road Trip

**Chapter Two: Road Trip**

**Disclaimer: For love, not profit.**

Sherlock Holmes sits with his palms flat on the table in the precinct conference room, Watson perched cross-legged on the chair beside him. Her nervous energy makes him more jittery than he already is, as if some electric current connects them.

The room is dark and dreary even in the middle of the day when light from distant windows manages to leak in. In the middle of the night when it is lit solely by flickering fluorescent bulbs, it takes on an unreal quality, like the set of a cheaply made B-movie. At one end of the table Mycroft sits, still dapper in his white jacket and dark blue trousers. Both Detective Bell and Captain Gregson look weary, the captain suffering from a cold.

"You realize how this looks," Captain Gregson says. Mycroft nods in agreement. "A whole restaurant full of witnesses saw you having an altercation with a food critic who later turns up dead. A critic, I might add, whose negative review was posted online shortly after leaving your restaurant and a few hours before his body was found in the bushes on the High Line."

"Ballistics says he was killed with a .22 caliber semi-automatic," Detective Bell adds. "An easy enough gun to get without a license."

"I abhor gun ownership," Mycroft says swiftly. "You Americans have an unhealthy obsession with firearms. I do not own and never would buy a gun, much less use one."

"I've heard that one before," Bell says. Turning to Holmes, he says, "Sorry, but your brother is our lead suspect."

"I agree," Holmes says. At his side, Watson twitches. "Circumstantial evidence seems to implicate Mycroft. If I didn't know him personally, I might be tempted to find it compelling."

He hears Watson's chair creak as she leans forward. "The food critic. John DeRossi? You knew him?"

Mycroft nods in her direction.

"I met him a week ago when he came to dinner. Most food critics never publish their likenesses in the press and use assumed names when they dine out. Not DeRossi. His food blog is the most widely read one in New York and he has a photo of himself on his website. I recognized him at once."

"Did anything unusual happen at that meal?" Holmes asks, and Mycroft nods again.

"He asked to speak to Travis and they went outside for a few minutes. Through the door I saw them in a heated discussion. When Travis came back in, DeRossi followed him, yelling. I intervened and told him he was no longer welcome to eat here."

"The argument," Watson says. "Do you know what it was about?"

"Travis offered no details," Mycroft says, "and I didn't ask. Not my place to, really."

Detective Bell cuts his eyes at Captain Gregson, obviously communicating something. "Did you see him any other time?" he asks. Mycroft shakes his head.

"Not until tonight. I have no idea how he got in. The opening was invitation only, and he was not on the guest list."

Captain Gregson picks up a piece of paper from the table and hands it to Mycroft.

"You've seen this? The review? It was posted on John DeRossi's webpage at 10:04 last night. Seems he didn't care for the food."

"He's entitled to his opinion," Mycroft says evenly, "but what I object to is his sophistry. The reasons he cites for his dislikes are misinformed at best."

"What do you mean?" Watson says, and Mycroft hands her the paper.

"For example, he criticizes the strong flavor of the ham. It's Smithfield ham from Virginia, salt-cured for three years. It tastes nothing like mild Westphalian ham. Only an idiot would call the difference a fault."

"An influential idiot," Detective Bell says. "His review will cost you some business."

"Doubtless," Mycroft says, scowling.

"That doesn't mean Mycroft killed him," Watson says.

"Of course not," Holmes adds. "But it does suggest a motive."

"Why kill the reviewer _after_ the review is posted," Watson says. "The damage is already done."

"Revenge," Holmes muses. "A fit of pique. A warning to other would-be reviewers."

Watson throws her hands up. "Whose side are you on?"

"There are no sides, Watson. I am attempting to get at the truth." Taking a deep breath, he turns to Captain Gregson.

"I suggest we interview Chef Wilkerson and see why he and John DeRossi had words last week. It was, after all, his menu that came under fire in the review. He has as much of a motive as my brother to commit murder."

"I don't believe it!" Mycroft exclaims. "Travis wouldn't hurt anyone."

"Yet he has a temper," Holmes says. Mycroft's face flushes slightly and Holmes hurries on. "I heard you both in the kitchen last night. Although I couldn't make out the words, the tone was clearly acrimonious."

From the corner of his eye he sees Watson react. She sits up straight and crosses her arms.

"It's true," she says. "I heard it, too."

Sighing deeply, Mycroft says, "We were arguing but it had nothing to do with DeRossi. I canceled a produce delivery that Travis had ordered and he was angry about it. Once he understood why I canceled it, he was fine."

"Why did you cancel it?" Captain Gregson asks, and Mycroft shrugs.

"The supplier doubled the price when he realized it was for our opening. I don't do business with gougers."

"Well," Captain Gregson says, gathering his notes and sitting back, "we don't have enough to charge you at this time. But don't think about leaving town anytime soon."

"You don't seriously think Mycroft is guilty?" Watson says. Her voice is tinged with the same incredulity Holmes feels.

If the captain is offended at her tone he doesn't show it.

"Not seriously," he says. Then turning to Mycroft he says, "But you better hope your brother here can help us find the real killer. Otherwise I have a feeling that bad review or not, your new restaurant isn't going to stay open long."

X X X

Later that morning at the brownstone, Mycroft and Sherlock sit on opposite ends of the sofa, looking more like grumpy bookends than brothers. Joan hands each one a cup of tea and retreats to the stuffed armchair next to the fireplace, lit now to fend off the chilly October weather.

"Darjeeling," Mycroft says, sipping his tea. "Tea bag, not brewed. Filtered water."

"Oh!" Joan says, unsure if his comments are criticisms or mere observations. Mycroft meets her eyes and says, "Thank you. It's lovely."

With an audible huff, Sherlock says, "Inferior grade leaves picked too soon because of last summer's drought in the Lesser Himalayas. Generic store brand. Hot water would taste better."

Joan has no trouble recognizing the criticism in Sherlock's comments. She rolls her eyes.

"So," she says loudly, and both men look at her. "We need a plan."

Again Sherlock purses his lips and blows a note of disapproval.

"The plan, Watson, is obvious. Chef Wilkerson is the first on our list of suspects to question. John DeRossi's neighbors are next."

"You think his murder might not have anything to do with the restaurant or the review? That he might have made one of his neighbors mad enough to kill him?" Watson asks. She's slightly abashed that she didn't think of that first, that the timing of his negative review and his death might have been mere coincidence.

"I have no idea," Sherlock says, "but if, as Mycroft maintains, Travis Wilkerson is unlikely to be our perpetrator, the possibility that one of his neighbors killed him increases. Or even a stranger. Mr. DeRossi lived near the 18th Street access stairs to the High Line. It wouldn't be hard for someone to lure him there and shoot him. That late at night it is mostly deserted, except for the odd tryst or surreptitious drug sale."

Turning to Mycroft, Sherlock says, "I'll also need a list of the guests who attended last night. And the contact information for your staff."

Tucking his hand into his inside jacket pocket, Mycroft pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to Sherlock.

"I anticipated that," he says. Joan sees Sherlock narrow his eyes at his brother.

_Annoyed at Mycroft's foresight? _

Shaking her head, Joan gets up and fetches her laptop from the dining room table. Reseating herself, she calls up the review and skims through it.

"This is the weirdest restaurant review I've ever seen," she says. DeRossi's review is a list of every item on the menu, listing not only his complaints about every dish but including the names of the suppliers of the ingredients with scathing commentary about them as well.

"How'd he even know who supplied the restaurant?" she asks, but even as she does she recalls the argument DeRossi had with the chef. "Could Travis have told him? Then when Travis found out that the review was going to be negative, they had words?"

Sherlock makes a familiar dismissive motion with his hand—something that she's used to but which embarrasses her now that he does it in front of Mycroft. She feels diminished somehow—or called out for making a blunder.

"Foolish speculation, Watson, and a waste of our time," he says. "You can do better. There's really only one question we need to answer right now, and that is…will our chef be _more_ or _less_ forthcoming if we take Mycroft with us when we question him?"

Stung by Sherlock's remark, Joan pipes up right away.

"We take him," she says, standing up and gifting Mycroft with a smile. From the corner of her eye she sees Sherlock frown. _Good. He deserves a little payback_.

Sherlock's irritation lasts all the way to Blossom. While Joan and Mycroft chat next to each other on the number 2 train, Sherlock sits on the other side of the aisle, his body angled away from them, the picture of sulk and peeve.

Because the restaurant doesn't open on Mondays until dinner, the only staff already there are a sous chef and Travis. Both are busy directing a delivery from a bakery but look up when Mycroft pushes open the door to the kitchen.

"We need to talk," Sherlock announces without preamble. Joan hears Mycroft sigh.

"If you don't mind," Joan hastens to add. "We have some questions about John DeRossi. You knew him personally?"

Travis Wilkerson is taller and bulkier than Sherlock, with thick dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Although he's wearing a white chef's jacket, Joan can see that his shoulders are broad, his arms powerfully built.

Following Sherlock's line of gaze, she sees him making the same observation.

_Someone who could carry a body off the path of the High Line and hide it in the bushes?_

"My brother informs me that you and Mr. DeRossi were engaged in a verbal altercation last week and he was asked to leave. What was the argument about?"

From behind Travis, the bakery deliveryman stands awkwardly holding a plastic crate of bread in his hands.

"Uh, where do you want this?"

The sous chef leads him to the storage room in the back of the kitchen and they disappear. Wiping his hands on his pants, Travis says, "Look, can we speak somewhere more private?"

Parting her lips to ask Mycroft if they can use his office, Joan sees Sherlock take a step forward.

"Not necessary," he says. "The question I've put to you is the only one I have."

_That's a surprise. Or perhaps a lie._ Joan crosses her arms like someone willing to wait all night for an answer. Rapidly blinking twice, Travis nods.

"Okay," he says. "We...knew...each other, okay? When I first came to New York, we dated for awhile, but then we went our separate ways. A few months ago John called me up for a drink, said he wanted to catch up. We met for drinks a couple of times, but then he said he was interested in picking back up where we left off. I told him no and he didn't take it too well. He showed up here later and we argued. That's it."

"That was a week ago," Joan points out. "Why did he come to the opening?"

"The first time we went out for drinks I told him about the restaurant and gave him an invitation. I figured he'd get one anyway—you know, because of his blog."

"Did he show you the review or tell you what was going to be in it?" Sherlock says, cutting his eyes at Joan. "Yes, I know that is another question and I promised only one, but this may be relevant to our investigation."

Travis ducks his head.

"No," he says, his eyes lowered. "But I knew he could be vindictive. It didn't surprise me when I read it."

Looking up, he blushes so hard that Joan is almost alarmed. His blood pressure must be borderline high right now.

"I didn't kill him," Travis says. "And I don't know who did."

At that moment the bakery deliveryman and the sous chef return from the storage room.

"You!" Holmes calls out. Both men stop in their tracks. "Delivery person. Do you know who John DeRossi is?"

"Uh, the guy who was killed last night? The food guy?"

"Come, Watson. We're wasting our time here." He turns and heads back through the restaurant.

"Wait, Sherlock!" Joan calls. "Are we going to talk to the neighbors?"

Halting so quickly that Joan almost plows into his back, Sherlock turns.

"Another waste of time," he says. "The odds are that the murderer killed John DeRossi in revenge for the negative review. Why someone seeking revenge and not, say, a neighbor angered by loud music or offensive cooking smells? Because the timing of the review and Mr. DeRossi's demise seems unlikely to be mere coincidence after all. Now, we know that Travis Wilkerson did not kill him—"

"How do we know that?"

"You heard him," Sherlock says. "He said that he had spurned DeRossi's advances and was not surprised when the review was negative. Furthermore, he admitted that he read it. A guilty person would lie and pretend ignorance, or he would hide the history of their relationship."

"Because what he told us makes him look guilty," Joan acknowledges. "Or at least like someone with a pretty good motive for murder."

"Exactly," Sherlock says. "He's too perfect a suspect to take seriously."

"You said we were going somewhere. You have another suspect in mind?"

Throughout the conversation Mycroft has stood by, listening. Now he speaks up.

"Not suspect," he says. "Suspects."

"Precisely," Sherlock says, rocking on his heels.

Joan feels a rush of irritation. Clearly both men know something that escapes her.

"So?" she says, letting her annoyance show. "Who _are_ the suspects?"

"The delivery people," Sherlock says. "Or rather, the suppliers they work for."

Ah! Like feeling the tumblers in a lock finally fall into place, Joan understands.

"DeRossi's review calls out the suppliers by name," she says, grinning despite herself. "They stand to lose business, too."

"More than I do, in fact," Mycroft says. "Even though my suppliers are in the South, they have customers all over the country. A bad review like this one—"

With a jerk of his head, Sherlock interrupts.

"Right, yes. Watson, let's go."

"You still haven't told me where!"

"To Dixie," Sherlock calls back over his shoulder as he hurries to the door. "To the American South."

**A/N: Hello there! Thanks to everyone who reads, and double thanks to everyone who reads and leaves a review. Your reviews give a little push to people who might be dithering about whether or not to give a fic a chance!**

**Thanks to StarTrekFanWriter who always gives good advice! Check out her stories in my faves.**


	3. Carry Me Back to Old Virginny

**Chapter Three: Carry Me Back to Old Virginny**

**Disclaimer: No money made! Phooey!**

Holmes takes a sip of coffee and grimaces.

"This is decaffeinated," he says, prying off the plastic top and holding out his Styrofoam cup for Watson's inspection. "If I have to drink a miserable road trip beverage passing for coffee, it should at least have some purpose."

Sitting across from him at a small table in a crowded room, Watson leans forward and peers into the cup.

"It's not decaffeinated," she says, wrinkling her nose the way she often does when she disagrees with him about something. "I poured it out of the regular pot."

She points unnecessarily to the self-serve counter where several travelers are helping themselves to the free coffee offered by Sandy's Truck Stop. Along an adjacent wall is a row of coin operated snack machines. "See," Watson says. "The glass carafe with the orange top has decaffeinated coffee. The black one is regular. I poured us both regulars."

"Be that as it may," Holmes says, replacing the top on his cup and setting it to the side, "this is decaffeinated. The taste of synthetic ethyl acetate is unmistakable. It's commonly used to strip the caffeine from coffee beans during processing."

He can see her mulling this over. With a sigh, she says, "I'll go get us some more."

Pushing back her metal chair she starts to stand.

"Don't bother," Holmes says to stop her. "The odds are the proprietor ran out of regular coffee and substituted this instead."

Watson settles back and takes another sip of coffee. "Well, decaffeinated or not, I need a break."

Indeed, Watson seems more tense than usual, most likely the result of driving for four hours without stopping until now. They had skipped breakfast at his suggestion and picked up Watson's car from the garage shortly before 7 to miss the worst of the traffic out of New York. As the sun rose they headed southwest through New Jersey and the rolling hills of Pennsylvania. Large dairy farms and long, low poultry houses dotted much of the landscape. The trees were almost luminescent, gold and orange and red. "So pretty," Watson had been moved to exclaim, though Holmes settled lower in the passenger seat of her Volvo and declared that the beauties of nature were overblown. After that Watson fell silent—which should have been a relief but which was, in fact, rather lonely.

"I would be happy to take a turn at driving," Holmes says as Watson finishes her coffee, "since you are feeling irritable."

"I'm not irritable!" Watson's brows are knit in a contradiction of her words. "I mean, I wasn't until now. Besides, you don't have a license. All we need is to be pulled over by some highway patrolman."

"I confess, Watson," Holmes says, his eyes drifting over her shoulder to a pickpocket slipping his hand into a heavyset woman's purse, "that driving holds little appeal. Never did much of it in London. Quite frankly, I don't understand how the world gets by without adequate mass transit."

The pickpocket walks rapidly across the room toward the exit.

"Mass transit isn't available—" Watson begins.

"Excuse me," Holmes says, rising and walking quickly to intercept the thief. Bumping his shoulder like someone being careless, Holmes gives a loud, "Sorry!" With a snarl, the pickpocket straightens his jacket and pushes open the door as Holmes walks to the coffee counter.

"I believe you dropped this," he says, pressing a wallet into the heavyset woman's hand. She darts a suspicious glance at him—understandable, really—and wordlessly replaces it into her purse. "You might want to zip that up," Holmes says, eliciting another suspicious glance from the woman who makes a point of turning and ignoring him.

Returning to his seat, he says, "I tried, Watson, but as you see, our victim insists on making herself a target."

Watson takes the last sip of her coffee and nods.

"You'll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy," she says, grinning, her voice oddly theatrical. A humorous comment, obviously, though Holmes doesn't know why. His face goes blank in concentration. "_Star Wars_?" Watson says. "Mos Eisley? The space station Obi-wan Kenobi takes Luke Skywalker to? That's what Obi-wan says when they first get there."

"Ah," Holmes says in dawning comprehension. "Popular fiction. I don't read fiction, Watson. A complete waste of time. You know that."

Watson gives a little huff of air and rolls her eyes to cede the point.

_Or not. _

"It's a movie. Don't tell me you haven't seen _Star Wars_."

"Of course I have," Holmes says quickly. "But as it offers little useful in my line of work, I have deleted it from my mental hard drive."

"I see," Watson says, standing up. "Your _limited storage theory_ about human brains. I told you that's not how memories work."

"If you told me," Holmes says, hopping up, "I have forgotten it."

He means it seriously but Watson laughs, apparently thinking he's joking or teasing her. For a moment he considers disabusing her of the notion but she looks happier than she has all morning.

Well, that will make the trip more pleasant.

Almost as soon as they get back onto the road, Holmes notes the sign indicating that they are passing through Maryland—and then with a surprising abruptness, through a corner of West Virginia and back into Maryland before finally reaching Virginia.

"I find the American allegiance to state sovereignty illogical," he says, waving his hand at the turnoff to the Virginia welcome center. "Why should a citizen living in one part of the country be subject to different laws and regulations than his fellows in another state?"

To Holmes' surprise, Watson doesn't rise to the bait, something she often does when he takes pains to highlight some particularly provocative American peccadillo….such as the marriage of high calorie fast food and convenience and the resulting obesity epidemic. Or the misuse of land for enormous car parks. Or the recent political gerrymandering that has made the government more dysfunctional than usual. All were subjects of long, heated debates over tea in the brownstone parlor—quite enjoyable ones, in fact.

"You got me there," she says agreeably, her right wrist draped over the steering wheel. "Doesn't make sense to me either."

That's disappointing. By his calculations, they are at least two hours away from their destination, a gristmill in the mountains of Virginia. An argument about the merits and drawbacks of American federalism would have filled the time nicely.

Despite his protests earlier, Holmes silently admits that Watson has a point, that the scenery in the Shenandoah Valley has an appeal. To the left of the motorway are the Blue Ridge Mountains, their name deriving from their hazy blue color—which, Holmes tells Watson, comes from vaporized isoprene from tree resin in the air. To the right are the Appalachians with their famous trail extending from Georgia to Maine.

The valley itself is sparsely populated, the towns and cities small and surrounded by farmland. When a road sign says they are 30 miles from Staunton, Holmes holds up the fingers of his left hand and ticks off the facts of the case as a review.

"First," he says, "we know that our restaurant reviewer, John DeRossi, died shortly after posting his scathing review online. In that review he names many of the restaurant's suppliers. Secondly, most of the suppliers ship their goods by commercial freight lines while others have their own transport. I've ruled out the suppliers who hire out their shipping—"

"Because those suppliers weren't in New York when DeRossi was murdered," Watson chimes in.

"Precisely," Holmes says. "The review was online only a few hours before DeRossi's body was found on the High Line walkway. A supplier from, say, Virginia, could not have gotten to New York that quickly."

"He could have flown," Watson says, but Holmes shakes his head.

"Even if he could have procured a seat on a flight leaving immediately, a would-be murderer would have to get through airport security on the front end and find ground transportation when he arrived at JFK or LaGuardia or Newark. Add those together and you have more time than elapsed between the posting of the review and Mr. DeRossi's death."

"So the supplier was already in New York," Watson says.

"Or someone delivering for him. On the day that John DeRossi died, there were eight out-of-town food deliveries by suppliers that were also mentioned in the review. Any one of them could have stayed in New York until the next day before heading south."

Watson's face lights up. "And an angry supplier could have read the review and made a phone call to his delivery guy—"

"With another little job for him to do before coming home."

X X

"Can I help you?"

The voice belongs to a thickset man in industrial overhauls, the owner and operator of the gristmill, most likely. His arms are muscled and crossed across his chest, his long hair tucked back by a cap with a leaping deer embroidered on the brim. The proverbial hillbilly, a modern day descendant of the Scots-Irish who made their way to Virginia in the mid-1700s. Indeed, the sign over the door says Waterbury Mill, established 1755.

"Yes," Holmes says, looking around the spare reception area in the front of a large corrugated metal building. A single cluttered desk is in one corner. Two plastic chairs are in the other. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Joan Watson. We are opening a chain of breakfast cafes throughout the South and are interested in setting up an account with your mill."

"No, you're not," the man says, pointing out the window to Watson's car. "You're from New York."

"The license tag," Watson says simply. So much for their ruse. Out with it, then.

"You're the owner of this mill?"

"Yeah," the man says. "And you're the police. I've been wondering when you'd show up. I admit it. I'm guilty."

Holmes rocks back on his heels feeling a mixture of triumph and disappointment. So much for the road trip. And just when he was starting to enjoy it, too.

"What did I tell you, Watson? Interview the suppliers and we find our murderer."

"Murderer?" The man flushes visibly.

"Sherlock?" Watson says, moving into his line of sight. "I don't think-"

Holmes straightens his shoulders. "John DeRossi? The restaurant critic you killed?"

"I don't know anything about a murder," the man in overhauls splutters. "I'm talking about the parking tickets."

"You _are_ Marshall Evans," Watson says. "Owner of this mill?"

"Yeah," he says. "That's me. Owner, worker, bookkeeper, handyman. I do just about everything here."

"Including making deliveries to New York," Holmes adds. Marshall Evans nods.

"Every couple of weeks or so," he says. "I hate it. Wish I could hire someone else to do it. I get at least one parking ticket every time I go."

"You were there last Monday," Watson says. Evans tucks his hands into his pockets and says, "Yeah, that's right. I supply seven restaurants and specialty stores there."

"Here," Watson says, unfolding a paper copy of John DeRossi's review and handing it to Evans. He darts a glance from Watson to Holmes and then looks down at the paper. For a moment the only sound is the distant noise of machinery.

"I don't understand," he says, looking up at last. "This guy says my grits are factory milled. He's wrong."

Holmes shifts from one foot to the other. "_Was _wrong. He's dead now."

"And you think I killed him." Evans offers it as a simple statement of fact, without sounding either overly defensive or mendacious. Holmes catches Watson's eye and sees that she, too, can hear how he seems to be telling the truth.

"Someone did," Watson says. "Someone who was in New York last Monday and who had a reason to want DeRossi dead."

Evans shrugs. "I didn't know him. And why would I want him dead? He didn't hurt me or my business. I'm a small artisanal mill. The majority of my customers are local. People here don't read New York restaurant reviewers."

"But the word might eventually get out. Your reputation could suffer, even among loyal customers." Holmes' comment is a shot in the dark and he knows it. Still, if he can provoke a response—

Which he seems to. Marshall Evans pulls his hands from his pockets and takes a step forward, his face going red.

"Look," he says, "this guy didn't know what he was talking about. Let me show you."

Without waiting for an answer, he heads through the door leading to the mill. Holmes and Watson hurry after him. The inside of the building is one large room, most of it taken up with an old-fashioned water wheel attached to a large grist stone. Near the stone are hoppers holding kernels of corn. A long, low piece of machinery designed to bag the finished grits sits along one wall.

"See," Evans says. "The review says my grits are factory milled, the kind soaked in lye to remove the germ and hull of the corn. Boring, white, tasteless. No real Southerner eats those unless he can't get anything better. I use the entire kernel, so my grits are speckled white and yellow and taste like grain. Stone ground grits aren't uniform in size but that's part of their appeal. This reviewer says that's a flaw, but he's wrong." He takes a deep breath before adding. "And I didn't kill him. I wouldn't."

"You see, don't you, why someone might think otherwise?" Watson says. "You had motive and opportunity."

Evans runs his hand through his hair. "Oh, man," he mutters. "And I thought the worst thing that could happen were those three parking tickets I got in one day."

"You have the tickets?" Holmes says abruptly. Evans nods.

"In my truck."

With a shrug he heads outside to the small delivery truck parked near the door. Reaching into the glove box, he pulls out a stack of small papers.

"I told you," he says, handing them to Holmes. "In the past three months I've gotten all these. Just because I can't ever find parking in the damn city."

The tickets are wrinkled but Holmes straightens them and slips them into chronological order. As Evans claims, they date back three months. With the flick of his thumb, Holmes separates three of the tickets from the others.

"You're right," he says.

"I told you I got three tickets that day."

"No, about being innocent of murder. You were also ticketed for speeding in Allentown, Pennsylvania, last Monday night at the time of John DeRossi's murder."

"I forgot about that," Evans says, sounding both startled and embarrassed.

Handing back the tickets to him, Holmes says, "Come, Watson. We're finished here."

"Wait!" Evans calls. "What should I do now?"

"Pay your parking tickets," Holmes says, opening the passenger door of Watson's Volvo. "Before NYPD's finest come looking for you."

**A/N: Sorry about the tardy update! The next one should get out faster! Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing in this small but loyal fandom. And thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for her excellent editing suggestions. **


	4. Pig in a Poke

**Chapter Four: Pig in a Poke**

**Disclaimer: I don't make much money at my real job, much less writing fanfiction! The only payment is a review!**

"Watson, did you know that the word _barbecue_ comes from the Taino tribe in the Caribbean?"

"I do now."

Joan Watson doesn't bother hiding her weariness. Or her annoyance. For the past thirty miles she's looked hopefully every time they've passed a turn-off advertising food. For once Sherlock seems oblivious and unobservant, almost as if he is intentionally ignoring her exhaustion.

"Furthermore, did you know that the popular meaning of _barbecue_ in the UK is the exact opposite of its meaning in the US?"

"It means to cook out, right? How's it different?"

"In England one _barbecues _with direct heat—a speedy process similar to what Americans call _grilling_. In the US, however, barbecue means to cook _slowly_ over indirect heat."

"I don't know where you got your information, but when my dad said we were going to have a _barbecue_, he meant that we were going to cook hamburgers on the _grill_," Joan says as cheekily as she can. At her side, Sherlock glares with narrowed eyes.

"American regionalisms aside," he says, "in the South, barbecue is more often a noun—and in the Carolinas, more often a dish made from pork."

"I'm assuming you have a reason for telling me all this."

"Naturally," Sherlock says. "One of the dishes Travis Wilkerson served the night our restaurant critic was murdered was a shredded pork barbecue. Authentic Southern barbecue takes hours to prepare—at least 12 hours to cook in a pit or smoker—so Chef Wilkerson imports his from North Carolina rather than tie up his kitchen with the preparation of a single dish this way. Twice a week a refrigerated truck leaves Hickory, North Carolina, and delivers smoked pork barbecue to various eateries in the New York area."

"Including Blossom," Joan supplies. Sherlock nods.

"This particular barbecue is dressed with a sauce made from vinegar and pepper flakes, a specialty, I'm told, of eastern North Carolina. Barbecue sauce elsewhere in North Carolina has a tomato base, but Chef Wilkerson prefers the style he grew up with."

"What does any of this have to do with John DeRossi's murder?"

"Barbecue sauce is a contentious issue in the South," Sherlock says, his hand out like a professor giving a lecture. "Millions of words have been written extolling the virtues of one type of sauce or the other. In fact, along the coast of South Carolina, a third type—one that uses mustard as its base—is _de rigueur_."

Joan shifts noticeably in her seat. "You aren't listening," she says irritably. "Why should I care about barbecue sauce?"

From the corner of her eye Joan sees Sherlock give her a look of blatant disbelief.

"You did read the review?"

"You know I did."

"And you didn't notice anything odd about DeRossi's comments about the barbecue?"

"If I weren't so tired and hungry I might be able to remember better," Joan says, hazarding a glance in Sherlock's direction. His expression doesn't change—not exactly—but he gives a quick nod as if agreeing to something necessary and unpleasant.

"Forgive me, Watson," he says swiftly, "I assumed you were as interested in finding the killer as I am. By all means, stop and have a meal. Take a break. We're in no hurry."

If Joan was tired and hungry before, now she's angry at being the target of Sherlock's sarcasm.

"First of all," she says, holding up one finger, "everyone needs to eat, even you, even though you pretend you are somehow superhuman."

Seeing Sherlock open his mouth, undoubtedly to refute her, she charges on louder and holds up a second finger.

"Secondly, a meal doesn't have to take a long time. Americans are great at eating on the go. We invented eating in our cars. Heck, fast food is called that for a reason. I know how to drive with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a hamburger—and if you don't believe me, I invite you to put me to the test."

Sherlock closes his mouth but angles his body toward her.

"Don't interrupt me!" Joan says preemptively. "Third, if you want to explain something, then do it. And don't give me that look when I don't automatically know what you're talking about."

"What look—"

"Yes, that look! The one you have on your face now. The one that says _you are an idiot if you can't follow my reasoning_. I'm not you, Sherlock. I don't always come to conclusions the same way you do. Stop making me jump through hoops just to have a conversation with you."

"That's what you think I'm doing?"

"It feels like it."

"I see."

For the next five minutes they ride in silence, Joan nursing her grievances, Sherlock looking away from her out the window.

"I realize now," he says at last, "that I have been taking you for granted, Watson. I assumed that whatever I felt, you felt. That what I understood, you did, too. I see that I need to make allowances."

Joan hazards another glance at him. Still turned toward the window, his face is partially obscured, his voice slightly muffled. He seems sincere, however, and Joan sighs.

She says, "I mean, you can't just tell me that there are two types of barbecue sauces and expect me to figure out why that is important. I need more help than that."

"Three."

"What?"

"There are three types of barbecue sauce, not two."

"So why are three types of sauce important? I _did_ read the review. I don't remember anything about that."

And just like that Sherlock is expounding again as if nothing awkward has passed between them. Joan tightens her grip on the steering wheel.

"John DeRossi said that the barbecue was supposed to be the signature piece of the meal but that it failed in every respect. It was pork, not beef. Shredded, not sliced. Most egregious of all was the lack of a thick, red barbecue sauce. DeRossi said that mere vinegar and pepper was akin to the emperor's new clothes—nothing there."

"So what," Joan says, baffled. "DeRossi didn't like North Carolina style barbecue."

"_Eastern_ North Carolina barbecue," Sherlock amends. "He insulted an entire culinary tradition—a proud culinary tradition, I might add. And in this case, a tradition that sees itself as the underdog."

"Okay, you've lost me again."

Sherlock gives her another jaundiced look but tamps it down before she can comment.

"At the end of November barbecue pit masters from across the South will meet in Mobile, Alabama, for the National Barbecue Association Cook Off. It's an invitation only event, Watson, considered the most prestigious and advantageous way to promote oneself as a master of the craft. It goes without saying that a national champion is able to parlay that success into tangible benefits. Reputation, money. In the history of the competition, vinegar-based barbecue sauce has never won."

"And you think Mycroft's supplier was afraid that the review would keep him out of the contest? That his invitation would be withdrawn?"

"I've no idea, Watson. Hence we are on our way to meet with him."

A loud rumble—and Joan grins sheepishly.

"Hear that? That's my stomach. Can we at least stop so I can get some lunch?"

"No need," Sherlock says, pointing to a large garish billboard with a cartoon pig wearing a checkered handkerchief around its neck and holding a knife and fork in its hooves—a morbid image, really, though Joan decides not to think too hard about it.

"Smokey's BBQ," she reads aloud. "That's where we're going?"

"It is indeed," Sherlock says as Joan pulls into the crowded parking lot surrounding a low shack-like building. Even before she opens the car door she can smell the aroma of smoked meat. Along the front of the low building are wooden backless benches occupied by people in all sorts of attire—from a teenaged couple in formal prom clothes to men wearing workmen's uniforms with their names embroidered inside little ovals over their hearts.

"This must be the place," Joan says. Sherlock makes a noncommittal hum.

A line of people stretches outside the door. Forcing his way past them and making his way to the counter, Sherlock catches the attention of a young redheaded woman wearing a denim shirt with the same cartoon pig stitched on the sleeve. "We require a table," Sherlock says. Joan sees the woman lift her brow, either at Sherlock's distinctive accent, his choice of words, or his mildly imperious tone. Or at all three.

"There's a line," she says in a honeyed drawl, cutting her eyes to the people waiting. Sherlock cocks his head and apes surprise.

"I had no idea."

Joan sees the young woman's eyes narrow and flash. She doesn't like being made fun of or treated like a yokel.

Sherlock seems to realize he's miscalculated. Bouncing on his heels, he says, "I realize there's a queue, but we are in something of a hurry. We're from the National Barbecue Association and we were hoping to make a report in time for the juried competition. If the owner is here—"

"You see all these people?" the young woman says. "They are ahead of you in line. Whatever you want, it will have to wait until they have been served."

"Perhaps you didn't understand me when I said that we are from the National Barbecue Association—"

Taking Sherlock's arm and stepping around him, Joan leans toward the young woman. "I'm so sorry. He's a diabetic and he's having an insulin reaction. When this happens, he doesn't think straight and he says things he shouldn't. He just needs something to eat—"

Suddenly a tall black woman is at Joan's shoulder.

"You said he's got diabetes?"

"Uh, yeah—"

"My mother died from sugar. I know how hard that can be." Turning to the line of people behind her, the woman calls out. "Ya'll, listen. This man's a diabetic and needs to eat. You mind if he jumps the line?"

One by one the people in line shake their heads or murmur _no_.

"Go ahead," the tall woman says. Joan feels a prickle of guilt as the redheaded hostess grabs two menus from a stack and motions for her to follow.

As they pass through a maze of jumbled tables and chairs, Joan notes the large open fire pit along one wall. Sparks and smoke partly obscure three men in striped aprons holding large metal instruments resembling harpoons which they use to wrangle racks of ribs**.** Sherlock nudges Joan as they are seated.

"Undoubtedly cooking the whole hog is done out back in a covered smoker," he says.

"Undoubtedly," Joan says, still annoyed, though at Sherlock for being rude to the hostess or at herself for resorting to lying to get them a seat, she isn't sure.

A teenaged boy with the same cartoon pig on his uniform comes up with a pitcher of water.

"What can I get you to drink?"

"Water's fine for me," Joan says. Sherlock purses his lips.

"Here in the backwoods of North Carolina, do you have tea?"

"Tea?"

"A beverage made from steeping the leaves of _Camellia sinensis_. Generally served hot, though if all you have is the iced variety, I will take that instead."

The teenager fills the glasses on the table with water and leaves.

"Do you have to do that?" Joan says. Sherlock blinks once, twice, before answering.

"What?"

Before she can answer, the waiter is back with a glass of iced tea. Sherlock takes a sip and winces.

"The sucrose level in this beverage is absolutely alarming," he says, setting the glass down and pushing it toward Joan. "No wonder there's an obesity epidemic in this country."

Joan rolls her eyes. It's the kind of pronouncement that has enough truth to it to be exasperating.

In another moment the waiter returns, this time with a small pad and pencil in his hands.

"Ready to order?"

"Yes," Joan says, relieved. They'd left their hotel in Virginia so early this morning that all she'd had time for breakfast was a cup of coffee. Now she's actually lightheaded and woozy—and her stomach hurts. She holds up her menu to point to the meal she's picked out—a barbecue plate with cole slaw, baked beans, and hushpuppies—when Sherlock interrupts her.

"Actually," he says, "we need to see the owner first. Thomas Jackson? Is he here? It's very important that we talk to him right away."

"Uh, I'll get someone," the waiter says, and Sherlock calls after him, "Not just someone. Mr. Jackson himself."

Across the table, Joan crosses her arms and glares. "Couldn't we at least have ordered some food?"

"The game's afoot, Watson. Every minute that the killer goes uncaught, the scent grows colder."

Joan sits back in her chair and looks around at all the happy customers eating barbecue. To the left is a table of men in button-down shirts and ties, paper napkins tucked comically in their collars, eating plates of ribs. To the right is a mother with her young children, a toddler in a high chair holding a French fry in each hand.

"Jess said you needed to see me?"

This from an older woman wearing a dirty chef's jacket. Her gray hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail. Her face is smudged and red, like someone who has been working over a forge.

"Your waiter must have misunderstood me," Sherlock says. "I need to speak to the owner, Thomas Jackson."

"I'm Earlene Jackson. You'll have to talk to me."

Sherlock darts a glance in Joan's direction.

"Very well. Last week Thomas Jackson made a delivery to a restaurant in New York—"

"No, he didn't," Earlene Jackson says.

For a moment Sherlock looks flummoxed.

"My sources say that he did," he says. "He delivered 75 pounds of barbecue to a restaurant on—"

"I'm telling you, he didn't," Earlene Jackson says, more forcefully this time. "I buried Thomas two weeks ago. Killed by a kid texting to his girlfriend. Head-on collision. Can you believe that? Killed by technology. Kid didn't even get a scratch on him."

"We're so sorry," Joan says before Sherlock can add anything. "We thought he was in New York last week."

"Wish he coulda been," Earlene Jackson says. "We had to ship everything Fed-Ex since the accident. Gonna stop, though. I got enough on my hands without worrying about out-of-town customers."

"You are discontinuing your business?" Sherlock asks. Earlene Jackson shrugs.

"More'n I can handle by myself. Thomas was the one who wanted to expand. I'm not even sure I can keep this place open."

"Then you aren't hoping to participate in the annual barbecue competition sponsored by the National Barbecue Association?"

Earlene Jackson gives Sherlock such a look of disbelief that Joan has to stifle a laugh.

"Maybe you didn't hear me," she says. "I'm not even sure I can keep this place running. You looking to buy a barbecue joint? I might be willing to sell."

With a huff, Sherlock starts to rise from his seat.

"Come, Watson," he says. "This is an obvious dead end. There's nothing left to do here."

"If you think so, your powers of deduction are slipping," Joan says, grabbing a fork from the table and brandishing it like a sword. With her other hand she lifts up the menu and waves it in the air. "I have a date…with Smokey the Pig."

**A/N: I would order BBQ for my last meal...and any of the three sauces would be heaven.**

**Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. Sorry for the tardy update….I took out time to write "Dalliance," a response to 2.07, "The Marchioness." Hopefully the next chapter will be more timely! **

**P.S. In Southern vernacular, a "pig in a poke" is a disappointing surprise.**


	5. Donuts and Jelly

**Chapter Five: Donuts and Jelly**

**Disclaimer: Not my characters, just my mischief.**

Sherlock Holmes looks across the desk to the 40-ish woman dressed in a gray business suit, her short hair coiffed in a stylish bob.

"Donuts are my life," Holmes says.

The first rule of persuasion is to begin by telling the audience what they want to hear, yet the woman—an executive with the Krispy Kreme donut company—doesn't look particularly impressed. In fact, her expression doesn't alter at all. From the corner of his eye Holmes sees Watson cross her legs, something so intentional that it must be a message of some sort.

"By donuts," Holmes amends, "I mean Krispy Kreme donuts, of course."

This time the woman in the gray suit smiles—marginally, but it's a smile. Holmes presses on. "Frankly, I'm surprised there is only one Krispy Kreme donut shop in all of New York City."

"In all of New York state," the woman says.

"Just so," Holmes says, nodding. "Why is that, do you think?" Watson shifts again—and Holmes adds, "I mean, with such a brilliant product, I would think franchisees would be clamoring for opportunities. You have, what, 24 operations in North Carolina—two here in the rather modest-sized town of Winston-Salem—but only one in the most populous city in the country?"

The woman in gray blinks twice. "Well, we started here in 1937. In Winston-Salem. Our expansion has been mostly through the South and West. Our donuts are very different in style from what passes for donuts in the Northeast."

"Heavy cake donuts up North," Watson interjects, and the woman nods.

"Our recipe is based on Louisiana beignets," she says. "Light, yeast-raised."

"Heavily sugared," Holmes adds. Again Watson shifts and Holmes has the unmistakable feeling that she is communicating something. "Which, of course," he says, "is part of their appeal."

"When you called," the woman says, a note of irritation creeping into her voice, "you said you were interested in a franchise?"

Holmes opens his mouth to disabuse her of that notion. They might as well let her know that the real reason they are here is to see if the bad review had scared off any potential franchisees and made expanding in New York more difficult—something that might motivate a company executive to commit murder, considering how much money franchises generate for the parent company. Before he can speak, however, Watson beats him to it.

"We think New York is large enough to support a second store," she says. True enough, despite the cloying donuts Krispy Kreme makes. Clever, too, for Watson to stick to the truth when she can. She's not as accomplished a liar as she thinks she is…giving herself away with multiple tiny twitches and intonations that he can't help but notice. Of course, he _is_ more observant than most people. And more observant of Watson than he is of anyone else—

"Although we were concerned when we read _this_," Watson says, pulling out a folded copy of John DeRossi's review. The woman in gray takes it, unfolding it and glancing over it quickly.

"Oh, yes, I saw this," she says, handing the paper back to Watson. "But you know what they say—there's no such thing as bad publicity. You're the sixth person to contact us about buying a franchise in New York City since the review came out. That's twice as many as all the inquiries last year."

"Serious inquiries?" Holmes says, surprised. Leaning toward Watson, he takes the review from her hand and holds it up at eye level. "After this? And I quote, '_Chef Wilkerson's dessert choices include a warm Krispy Kreme donut topped with a scoop of Cheerwine-flavored ice cream. The ice cream alone is bizarre enough, but eating a Krispy Kreme donut is like eating sweetened puffed air—hardly worth the effort_.'"

The woman in gray shrugs. "What's not to like about sweetened puffed air?"

Just so. The American diet has so much sugar already that more of the same would undoubtedly appeal to the masses. Obviously the Krispy Kreme company is not threatened by DeRossi's description.

"Thank you," Holmes says, pushing back his chair and standing up. "But on further reflection, I've decided that for the required two million dollar investment, I wish to pursue other ventures."

Without watching to see if Watson follows, he heads down the hall to the front of the Krispy Kreme office building. Once outside, he waits until he hears Watson's footsteps behind him.

"That was quick," she says. "Where to now?"

"The headquarters for Cheerwine is in the next town over, less than thirty miles away," Holmes says. "I'm tempted to go there, though I strongly suspect that we would find the same situation: A Southern product with limited distribution up North—and thriving anyway."

"I checked," Watson says, pulling out her keys from her purse and unlocking the door to the car. "There's only one Cheerwine bottler in New York City, and they make all kinds of sodas. It doesn't seem likely that they would be affected by a single bad review."

"Have you ever tasted Cheerwine?" Holmes asks, grimacing at the memory of the cherry-flavored cola. He'd tried it once when the coffee dispenser at the precinct station had been broken and the only other choice in the soda machine was something fluorescent green. Watson shakes her head. "Be glad," Holmes says. "It certainly isn't something to commit murder for."

Watson starts the car. "So where do we go?"

"There's only one other food," Holmes says, "that DeRossi mentioned with ties to North Carolina. Scuppernongs, or more precisely, scuppernong preserves. Or jelly, as it is called in the States. In England jelly is something quite different."

"What we call Jell-O," Watson says, and Holmes nods, mentally chastising himself. Naturally she knows the different meanings of _jelly_. He has to stop underestimating her this way. It's inefficient, telling her things she already knows.

"You recall that Chef Wilkerson served scuppernong jelly as a condiment for his buttermilk biscuits," Holmes says.

"Not English biscuits, which we call _cookies_," Watson says, darting a glance at him. She's teasing him? It's almost as if she senses his earlier resolve not to insult her with useless details. Amusing, really, the way she tries to provoke a response. More than amusing, if he's honest about it. Pleasurable. Looked for. Longed for, when she's absent. He gives himself a shake and turns back to the work at hand.

"Precisely. American biscuits are ubiquitous in the South, leavened with quick rising baking powder rather than yeast, served hot with butter, honey, or jams. Or in Chef Wilkerson's case, scuppernong jelly imported from Highland Confitures, an artisanal shop owned by one Savannah Harrison. She sells primarily over the Internet, though she maintains a shop in Old Salem, the reconstructed historic section of Winston-Salem."

"I've been there," Watson says, grinning. "Not to the jam shop, but to Old Salem. My parents drove us through when we were kids on the way to Myrtle Beach one summer. I remember buying tins of paper thin molasses and ginger cookies." She glances at him and adds, "You know, _biscuits_."

She laughs then—always a pleasant sound, but doubly so after their earlier minor imbroglio concerning eating a barbecue lunch. It probably wasn't wise to try and rush her through her meal—

"Made and sold by descendents of Moravian settlers," Holmes says. "This part of North Carolina was settled by Czech immigrants, unlike the mountains where the Scots-Irish set up camp."

He's doing it again, telling her more than she probably needs or wants to know. Watson, however, seems to be listening intently, nodding from time to time. What had she scolded him about this morning? For leaping ahead in his deductions and assuming she was in full tilt behind him without giving her the necessary data? Perhaps she doesn't mind his exposition after all. He has to admit that he enjoys explaining things to her. Misses it—misses _her_—when something interesting arises and she's not nearby.

"Look!" she says, pointing to a welcome sign to Old Salem. Steering the car into the first available parallel parking spot, she points to their destination, a red brick building with dark green window awnings and a decorative wooden sign that says Highland Confitures.

The inside of the shop smells fruity and syrupy, which is no surprise since the shelves are stuffed with small jars of jams, preserves, jellies, and local honey. Alerted by the tinkle of a bell attached to the door, a pink-cheeked older woman wearing a plaid skirt and white apron comes out from a back room. Not the usual physical profile of a murderer, though Holmes has brought at least two elderly grandmothers to justice in the past.

"Savannah Harrison?" Holmes says without preamble.

She smiles and nods. "Do I know you?"

"Sherlock Holmes, and this is Joan Watson, my associate. We're aiding the NYPD with a murder investigation."

Wrinkling her brow in what appears to be genuine confusion, Savannah Harrison says, "You're doing what?"

Either the woman is hard of hearing or daft. Holmes sighs and considers how best to make himself understood. Watson brushes her hand against his arm, catching him off guard and stopping him from speaking.

"Ms. Harrison, Mr. Holmes and I are consulting detectives with the police department in New York City."

"Oh!" Savannah Harrison says, pressing her right hand against her chest like someone with heart palpitations. "Has something happened?"

"A few days ago," Watson says, "a restaurant reviewer was killed after he posted some negative comments about a restaurant called Blossom."

"Mycroft's place," Savannah Harrison says. At Holmes' side, Watson jumps slightly, apparently as surprised as he is.

"You know Mycroft personally?" he says. Savannah Harrison shakes her head.

"We haven't met," she says, "but we've communicated over the phone a great deal. He wanted to know all about scuppernongs. Said he was thinking of putting in a supply of muscadine wine and wanted to know the difference."

The woman _is _daft. Holmes sighs and tries again.

"I'm afraid I don't follow you. What is the connection between scuppernong jelly and muscadine wine?"

"They're both wild grapes, now, aren't they?" Savannah Harrison says, her voice incredulous. It's a tone of voice he's used to using—on other people. Being on the receiving end is…unusual. "Both are native to this area, though scuppernongs are larger and thicker-skinned than muscadines. And muscadines are often purple. Scuppernongs are green or golden. Here, see."

She leads the way through a door that opens into a tiny industrial kitchen with stainless steel counters and a tile floor. Beside a large covered vat on the counter are several plastic baskets of round grapes, some as large as golf balls. Savannah Harrison picks up one of the green ones and hands it to Holmes.

"This is a scuppernong," she says. "Take a bite."

She gives a smaller purple one to Watson.

"This is a muscadine. Try it."

Lifting the scuppernong to his nose, Holmes takes a whiff. Earthy, almost musky. He nibbles experimentally. The skin is surprisingly tough—he has to bite hard to scissor through to the gelatinous center, which has a watery sweet-tartness not unlike an ordinary grape. Watson pops the entire muscadine into her mouth and winces.

"Ooh," she says, chewing. "That's really…different." Seeming to reconsider the effect her words might have, she adds, "But _good_ different."

Savannah Harrison smiles. "We like them," she says. "Mycroft thought about importing them whole and letting the chef make his own jelly, but once he tasted what I make here, he decided to buy it instead. He's my biggest buyer by far."

"How much business do you actually do in New York?" Watson says, anticipating exactly the right thing to ask. Holmes bobs in approval. It's gratifying, really, how far Watson has come in her ability to intuit what he needs her to say and do.

"In addition to supplying Blossom? Oh, not that much, though I hope as the word spreads, I'll sell more."

"That hardly seems likely now," Holmes says, watching Savannah Harrison's face fall. Although she doesn't appear to be a likely murderer, she could have prevailed on someone to commit the crime for her. Still, something is off, though at the moment he can't put his finger on what.

Watson, however, goes straight to the heart of the matter.

"How much do you sell your scuppernong jelly for?" she says.

"I hate to admit it," Savannah Harrison says, lowering her voice like a conspirator, "but each jar costs $4. Ridiculous, I know. You can buy grape jelly in the grocery store for half that."

"Do you mind my asking how much jelly you've sold Mycroft?" Watson asks, but Holmes doesn't need to hear the answer. Even if Mycroft bought a truckload of Savannah Harrison's scuppernong jelly, it hardly amounts to a profit worth murdering anyone over, despite John DeRossi's description of it as _a tasteless blob of indeterminate origin._

"We're done here," he says abruptly. Watson stands back stiffly. Savannah Harrison frowns.

"You said you are with the police but I don't understand—"

"Please accept our apologies for disturbing you," Holmes says. As he turns to go he sees matching looks of consternation on the faces of Savannah Harrison and Watson.

_He's being too abrupt?_ Watson has cautioned him about his tendency to sudden shifts in motion. Too late now, though perhaps he can make up for it somehow.

"Ms. Harrison," he says, startling the older woman, "I notice that you also carry honey. Ms. Watson is an aficionado of honeybees, including their honey. Which of these would you recommend as a gift for someone as knowledgeable as Ms. Watson?"

Suddenly Savannah Harrison's demeanor softens, her expression changing to one of pride and satisfaction as she pulls a small glass jar of rare honey from the shelf behind the counter.

"It's expensive," she says, a flicker of apology creasing her brow, "but if you like honey, there's none better than this made from Southern tupelo flowers."

"The _nyssa ogeche_ tree. We'll take all you have," Holmes says, angling away from Watson to avoid meeting her gaze as he pays. He doesn't need to see her to know that a look of surprised delight is slowly spreading across her face, and a faint blush, too, on her cheeks, as if she has been sitting too close to a fire.

Which in a way she has, of course, though that's one piece of information he has no intention of letting her know.

**A/N: Honk if you've had Krispy Kreme donuts or Cheerwine or scuppernongs! Thanks for reading—and double thanks for reviewing! **


	6. Detour

**Chapter Six: Detour**

**Disclaimer: I write for love, not money.**

"Is there a problem, officer?"

Joan smiles up at the baby-faced highway patrol trooper peering into her window. His expression is blank, his demeanor remote. In one gloved hand he holds some sort of electronic pad.

"License and registration," he says. Her heart pounding, Joan reaches for her purse on the car seat beside her.

From the passenger side, Sherlock calls out. "She asked you a question."

Dipping his head lower, the gray-uniformed trooper looks into the car. Sherlock leans in his direction and continues.

"Is there a problem? It's not a hard question to answer. Indeed, I believe we are within our rights to know the reason we are being detained."

Although his eyes are covered by dark sunglasses, Joan can sense that the trooper is annoyed. His posture stiffens. His hand grips the pad more tightly.

"Uh, here," she says hurriedly, holding up her license. "Sherlock, open the glove compartment. The registration is in there."

"Not until he explains why he needs to see it," Sherlock says. Joan shoots daggers in his direction.

"Just do it," she says. For a moment she thinks he will resist again—but then his hand darts forward and he pulls the folded registration form out.

"I do so under protest," Sherlock says. "Our being stopped is capricious and unjustified. You were not speeding and the GPS record can attest to that. Nor have you broken any other traffic regulations—not that you could on this forsaken stretch of backwoods highway. My conclusion, therefore, is that we have been caught in what is familiarly known as a _speed trap_, a common way for under-budgeted rural local law enforcement outposts to generate revenue."

"Sir," the officer intones, "this does not concern you."

"It most certainly does," Sherlock says. "You are hindering a police investigation."

"Sherlock—" Joan begins.

"If I refuse to cooperate?" Sherlock says. The trooper disappears from Joan's view as he circles around the back of the car. His head appears outside the passenger side glass and Joan hears him say, "Open your window."

Instead, Sherlock pulls on the door handle and pushes open the door. The trooper steps back, saying, "Sir, return to your vehicle."

Joan sees Sherlock arch his back and bounce on the balls of his feet, something he does when he's overly-excited. With a jerk, she pulls open her own door and steps out of the car.

"Return to your vehicle," the officer says more loudly this time, dividing his attention between Sherlock and Joan.

_This is a mistake,_ Joan thinks as she scurries around the car, waving her left hand to catch Sherlock's attention. Sure enough, the officer taps his lapel microphone and says, "Wolfpack 1201 requesting backup."

"No, wait!" she calls out, but the trooper suddenly has his sidearm in his hand.

Later Joan will try to remember exactly what happens next but it remains a blur—Sherlock raising his hand, palm out like a traffic cop; the trooper large and stolid and unmoving, and behind him the flashing blue lights of two patrol cars suddenly there.

And later still, the ride in the back of the patrol car to the small police station out in the middle of nowhere, the unceremonious booking, Sherlock seething like a teakettle about to boil over, Joan placing her one phone call to the only person she thinks can get them out of here.

"You called Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaims when she returns to the holding cell, his tone equal parts disbelief and disapproval. "I can afford to post my own bail without his help."

"I hope it doesn't come to that," Joan says. "I asked him to call Captain Gregson. He might have a contact here who can talk to the local magistrate so the charges are dismissed."

"As they should be," Sherlock says, huffing.

Joan stops pacing and stands with her hands on her hips in front of him. "You threatened a police officer. You didn't stand down when ordered to. You were, in every way, uncooperative. Even if you were right—that we were tagged by a speed trap—you've made matters a thousand times worse."

"Extortion, Watson," Sherlock says dismissively. "That's what this was, pure and simple."

Arguing with Sherlock is never an easy task. Arguing with him when he feels aggrieved is hopeless. With a harrumph, Joan sits at the other end of the bench and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. From his end of the bench, Sherlock shifts and takes an audible breath.

"Mycroft will undoubtedly take his time," Sherlock says, cutting his eyes at her. "While we wait, we might as well review the case. Perhaps we are missing something."

Sighing, Joan sits back and crosses her arms. Sherlock proceeds as if oblivious to her body language. Which, she reminds herself, he probably is.

"We know that restaurant critic John DeRossi was murdered sometime after midnight and his body deposited on the Highline. Travis Wilkerson and Mycroft, chef and owner, have the most to lose by the negative review but both have alibis that place them elsewhere at the time of the murder. So far we have interviewed all but two of the food vendors mentioned in the review, none which appear to be likely suspects."

"I know all this already," Joan says irritably. "That's why we are in South Carolina."

Sherlock darts her a glance, an admission that he hears her irritation.

"Specifically why we are heading to the _Lowcountry_ of South Carolina," he says. "As small as it is, South Carolina is divided into three distinct geographical areas."

"Oh, goody, a geography lesson."

Ignoring her, Sherlock continues. "Imagine a piece of pie with the tip pointing down," he says. "That is South Carolina. The hilly northwest third of the state abuts the Blue Ridge Mountains and is called the Piedmont, from the Latin for _foot of the mountains_."

"And a language lesson," Joan says.

"If you would rather I not continue—"

"No, by all means, go on."

Sherlock shifts again, turning toward her. "I realize that our current predicament is partly my fault—"

"Partly!"

"And you are annoyed with me," he says. "Be that as it may, we are here. We still have suspects to examine. We can use this time to review the case, or, if you prefer, I can allow you to sulk in silence."

"I'm not sulking," Joan says, trying not to sound as petulant as she feels. She waits a beat and then says, "Go on."

As if he had not been interrupted, Sherlock says, "The Piedmont is also called the Upcountry in South Carolina, for obvious reasons. Now imagine a wide swath of desolate sand hills and scrub pines running diagonally across the middle of the state. That section is called the Midlands. The Lowcountry is the remaining part of the state—the coastal region."

"Myrtle Beach," Joan says. "At the north end of the state. Where my family used to vacation every summer."

"Indeed," Sherlock says. "But it is much further down the coast that we are going, to Charleston. There are only two more vendors mentioned in the review, and both are from that area. One is a local chef whose collard dolmades recipe Travis Wilkerson borrowed. The other is the owner of the largest prawn fishery in South Carolina."

"Wait," Joan says, "did you say a chef is on the suspect list?"

"Lavonia Crawford, whose speciality is the historical cuisine of African-Americans."

"Soul food," Joan says, and Sherlock nods.

"Just so. In the biographical sketch printed in Blossom's menu, Travis Wilkerson attributes many of his recipes to his personal friend and mentor, Ms. Crawford. The collard dolmades that were served at the opening, for instance, are her version of the traditional Greek dish."

"You think she might have killed DeRossi out of loyalty towards Travis?"

"Hard to say," Sherlock says, "without meeting her. Or she might have taken umbrage at DeRossi's characterizing her collard dolmades as a _travesty_."

"Pretty harsh alright, but hardly a reason to commit murder."

"Lesser reasons have proven sufficient motivation, Watson. You know that."

"And the other possible suspect? The owner of a fishery?"

"A prawn fishery," Sherlock amends. "Or shrimp, as they are called on this side of the pond. There are, in fact, many varieties of shrimp. The ones caught off the coast of South Carolina are typically white shrimp, prized for their clear, crisp taste and moderate size."

"And why would a shrimp fishery owner care about one bad restaurant review?"

"Depends," Sherlock says, frowning. "The review suggested that the company uses unsustainable fishing practices. Most average customers might not know or care, but high-end chefs such as Travis Wilkerson are well aware of the origins of the food they prepare, and many have a commitment, stated or otherwise, to sustainable production. It's not simply a moral issue. It's in their best interest to insure the continuance of the foods they cook."

"So if a company gets a reputation for engaging in unsustainable fishing—"

"It would lose much of its business, yes, and that might prompt someone to commit murder."

They fall silent then. Sherlock crosses his arms, leans back, and closes his eyes. In a few minutes his breathing becomes so slow and regular that Joan is certain he is asleep. Not a bad idea, actually. She tries to follow suit, resting her head on the hard tile wall behind her and shutting her eyes. The distant noise of the station falls away, but before she knows it, Joan is startled awake by the sound of a familiar voice.

"Fancy meeting you here."

"Mycroft!"

A uniformed officer is in the doorway of the holding cell. Behind him, Mycroft steps forward, his eyes flicking from Joan to Sherlock and back again.

"How did you get here so fast!" Joan says. Coming into the room, Mycroft holds out his hand and helps her to her feet. From the corner of her eye, she sees Sherlock bounce up from the bench, his chin tipped up like a prizefighter heading off a blow.

"He flew," Sherlock says. "Not a commercial flight. The nearest large airport is too far to have come via the regular airlines. A business jet, then, commandeered from one of Father's many contacts. We passed a sign for a municipal airport on the way here."

Mycroft's expression grows steely and he turns his attention briefly to his brother. "Just so. Joan, how are you?"

"We're okay. Are we—"

"Free to go? Yes. The charges have been dropped."

"Thank you for your assistance," Sherlock says. "Now you can leave."

"Actually," Mycroft says to Joan, the ghost of a smile in his expression, "I was hoping to join you for the rest of your journey. I would make an agreeable traveling companion."

Drawing up to Joan's side, Sherlock stiffens.

"Absolutely not," he says. "Your presence would be an unwelcome distraction for me. And while Watson might find your presence a _welcome_ distraction, the operative term is _distraction._"

"And yet," Mycroft says evenly, "you haven't found the killer while being undistracted. I might be useful."

"Yes, the way having a thorn in your foot is useful when you are trying to limp."

"I'm being serious—"

"So am I. Your presence is neither necessary nor desired. Watson and I have eliminated all but two of the suspects we came South to interrogate. Whether or not you recognize it as such, that is progress. We are on our way to Charleston to finish our investigation now."

He follows the uniformed officer down a short hall to the main room where they were booked earlier. Another officer hands Sherlock a large ziplock bag with the contents of his pockets. Joan darts an apologetic glance at Mycroft and gives a tiny shrug and she retrieves her wallet and phone. As she signs for her things, she hears Sherlock walking out, and indeed, when she turns around, he is already outside.

"I'm sorry," she says, risking another glance at Mycroft. His expression is unreadable and Joan squirms under his scrutiny. "He's just…frustrated…that this is taking so long. You know how he is."

"Do I? Sometimes I think I hardly know him, he's changed so much."

At that Joan smiles. It's true. As abrasive as he can be now, Sherlock's a veritable softie compared to who he was a year ago. She's told him that before, too, and laughed when he tried to deny it.

The door looms up and Mycroft reaches past her to the handle. With a sudden twirl, Joan does an about-face and bumps into Mycroft's chest, stopping him.

"Listen," she says, struggling to back away slightly without seeming uncomfortable, "I appreciate what you've done to get us out of here—"

"But you wish I'd go away."

Mycroft's words are flat and matter-of-fact. Underneath them, however, Joan hears a more poignant tone. He wants to stay. He might, in fact, hope to rekindle whatever flared up between them in London, however temporary and troubling and quickly doused it was.

"It's not that I'm not glad you're here," she says, not meeting his gaze, "but Sherlock and I are still sorting out what all this—" She waves her hand to include Mycroft, herself, the world, the universe. "Well, what this means. If it means anything."

She looks up then and is startled by the look of disappointment in his eyes. Almost at once it is replaced with something cooler, something more distant.

"I see," he says, and she nods as they continue out the door into the late afternoon sunlight.

At the car Sherlock stands, rocking on his heels.

"Can we give you a lift somewhere?" he says, his helpful words at odds with his snarky tone of voice. "Back to the municipal airport, for instance?"

"My ride has already departed," Mycroft says. "I'm afraid that for now, at least, you're stuck with me. I'll arrange another way to New York as soon as I can."

Sherlock's expression darkens at once.

"We will be in Charleston by nightfall," he says. "You can catch a flight to New York from there."

"Tomorrow, perhaps," Mycroft says, pulling open the back door and sliding in. "After a good night's sleep."

With a jerk, Sherlock lets himself in the front passenger door.

"A good night's sleep?" he says, looking at Mycroft through the rear view mirror. "Don't you see, Watson, his real purpose, in coming here? He isn't interested in solving a murder or even helping us sort through a legal misunderstanding with the local police. He's here hoping you can be enticed into another dalliance—"

As he talks his voice grows louder, higher, his hands gesticulating wildly. With an abrupt motion, Joan presses her hand against the steering wheel until the horn sounds.

"Stop!" she says. "I'm tired. I'm hungry. I've just spent several hours locked up in a police station in Podunksville in the _Midlands_ of South Carolina and all I want is a hot bath and a clean bed. I do _not_ want to spend the next two hours cooped up in this car listening to two siblings duking out their childhood rivalry."

She looks up just as Sherlock opens his mouth to reply and she lifts her finger to silence him.

"Don't!" she says. "I don't care what you think Mycroft is here to do. It isn't going to happen. It. Isn't."

Then she looks over her shoulder at Mycroft and says, "And no one is going to say anything else until I stop this car again—and that won't be until I'm parking in front of a hotel where I'm going to get my own room with my own bath and my own bed!"

With a twist of the key she turns on the car, bracing her arms in front of her, her hands straddling the steering wheel. An audible huff—and the tension of the day drains out, making her feel more than a little foolish for her rant. She looks to her right to tell Sherlock that she's sorry, that her words were uncalled for, when she catches a glimpse of something so rare that she blinks in astonishment. Sherlock in profile, his face angled backward toward Mycroft, a grin spreading across his face, his eyes crinkled in unmistakable glee. Not just glee. Triumph. Unmistakable gleeful triumph.

With a roar she hits the gas. It's going to be a long ride to Charleston.

**A/N: Thanks for sticking with THIS ride! I appreciate the reviews more than you can know!**


	7. Chef de Cuisine

**Chapter Seven: Chef de Cuisine**

**Disclaimer: I make no money from writing this story. Your reviews are all the payment I want.**

Even before he opens the door of his hotel room, Holmes knows by the percussive, knuckle-loud sound that Mycroft is the one knocking.

"Did you know that Charleston's sobriquet is _The Holy City_?" Mycroft says as the door swings open.

He stands with a breakfast tray held aloft like a peace offering. Which it is, of course. If Mycroft assumed he'd be welcomed when he appeared at the police station yesterday, he had miscalculated badly. Holmes' silence on the ride to Charleston was designed to communicate his disapproval.

"That explains the incessant church bells through the night." Holmes glances at the breakfast tray. "Beware Greeks bearing gifts," he says with as much snark as he can muster. "Is Watson joining us?"

"I've already taken her a tray," Mycroft says.

To his surprise, Holmes feels a flash of something close to anger. Ridiculous, of course. He's not Watson's keeper. Nor Mycroft's. Still. It's an irritant, imaging the two of them—

With a sudden determined flourish, Holmes steps back and waves his arm to the small round table across the room. Mycroft comes in and sets down the tray.

"We need to talk," he says.

Instead of answering, Holmes shuts the door so forcefully that the framed picture on the wall rattles.

"At least have some tea," Mycroft says.

Without making eye contact, Holmes follows and hovers beside the table.

"You're joining me, I take it?" He motions to the two teacups on the tray.

"If you don't mind."

"And if I do?"

"We need to talk, Sherlock."

"No, we don't. You _want_ to talk, quite possibly to assuage your guilt. As I told you, I expected better from you. There's little you can say to change that."

"Very well," Mycroft says, pulling out a chair and settling down beside the small table. "Then let's talk about the investigation. You said you have two suspects left to interrogate. Perhaps I can be of some help."

The implied criticism is galling. Holmes huffs loudly.

"Watson and I are perfectly capable of carrying on without any help you might offer."

"No one doubts that," Mycroft says, his voice thick with some unidentified emotion. "But if I can speed up the investigation somehow—"

"Or slow it down, with your interference."

"Look," Mycroft says, "I appreciate what you are doing for me. I want to find this killer too—"

"I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it because it is an unsolved murder. Because the NYPD cannot be here doing the legwork I'm doing."

Holmes watches the expression on Mycroft's face darken. Good. Perhaps now he will go away. Or at the very least, start planning his exit.

Instead, Mycroft takes a breath and starts over.

"The chef you are going to see—Lavonia Crawford—I know her personally. Travis introduced us when we took a tour through the Carolinas months ago. She's not an easy person to talk to. In fact, she can be rather prickly—"

"How well do you know her?"

"I've spoken to her once," Mycroft says, frowning.

A single conversation hardly makes Mycroft's help invaluable. Holmes raises his hand in dismissal but his brother hurries on. "Which is once more than you have. If nothing else, I have a baseline for her behavior."

"Meaning that you know how she acted before the murder," Holmes says, nodding slowly, reluctantly. "If she is guilty, you may be able to detect some hint of deception or discomfort that Watson and I might miss."

Instead of answering, Mycroft pours himself a cup of tea and sits in the chair nearest the small table. Holmes follows suit, perching, teacup in hand, on the edge of the bed. For a few moments the brothers drink in silence, Mycroft watching closely as Holmes deliberately averts his gaze.

Coming to a decision, Holmes sets his cup back on the tray and says, "Very well. You may accompany us to question Ms. Crawford. After that, however, I expect you to leave as soon as possible."

Flying back to New York isn't particularly hard from Charleston, though a direct flight might not be available. If he wanted to, Holmes is certain he could make the arrangements in a few minutes with a flick or two of his thumb on his phone. But as much as he doesn't want to admit it, Mycroft might actually be able to help settle this case.

As if he senses Holmes' hesitation, Mycroft says, "I also know the owner of the shrimp company. He might be more willing to open up if I am with you." Holmes flashes him a look of annoyance. Sending his brother packing would be foolish, but Holmes' wounded pride or vanity or whatever it is he feels when he remembers Mycroft's ill-conceived dalliance with Watson causes him to stumble even now.

Again Mycroft seems able to head off his brother's objections. Annoying, that. Holmes resolves to work on blanking his expression in the future so as not to give himself away.

"Of course," Mycroft says, "it's up to you. I'll abide by your wishes. If you want me to go, I'll go—"

Stifling a sigh, Holmes waves his hand to the door.

"Be at the car in twenty minutes," he says. "Watson and I will join you after I've had my tea."

# #

Lavonia Crawford shakes her head.

"No, nope, and no way. I don't have time to talk to the police."

She stands in the kitchen of the Charleston restaurant where she's _chef de cuisine_, arms akimbo, her chef's jacket almost comically long on her petite stature. Her white dreadlocks are pulled back and tied, a contrast to her smooth brown skin.

"We aren't the police, and we've come all the way from New York," Mycroft says. Or rather, wheedles, his ingratiating tone like fingernails on a chalkboard, Holmes thinks. "Travis needs your help."

For the first time since Holmes, Watson, and Mycroft arrived five minutes ago, Lavonia Crawford's expression softens.

"He's not a suspect, is he?" she asks. Mycroft raises his eyebrows and darts a glance in Watson's direction. She in turn looks at Holmes for guidance in how to answer.

"He might be," Holmes says loudly. Lavonia Crawford turns her attention to him.

"Travis didn't kill nobody," she says, her eyes flashing. "Anybody that knows him knows that."

It's the kind of emotional defense that for too many people takes the place of reason and logic. Holmes rocks back on his heels, ready to say so.

Watson speaks first. "How can you be certain?"

"Because I know Travis as well as I know myself," the chef says, frowning. Looking at Mycroft, she says, "I don't have time for this nonsense. I'm only talking to you now because _you_ asked."

She's obviously outraged on Travis' behalf, but that doesn't mean that she herself isn't guilty. On the other hand, the murderer dragged the body off the path on the Highline and hid it in the bushes. Lavonia Crawford can't weigh much more than seven stone; such a task would have required help.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side and says, "Yes, well. Where were _you_ when John DeRossi was killed?"

"If you're asking me if I have an alibi," Lavonia Crawford says, training her dark, impenetrable eyes on Holmes, "I don't. I wasn't working that week, so I was at home. Alone. That's right. Didn't do much except work in my garden and catch up on my sleep."

"Did anyone see you? Did you go anywhere at all?" Watson says. Lavonia Crawford shakes her head.

"Maybe you weren't listening. I was at home by myself."

A young woman carrying an armload of greens comes into the kitchen and moves to the industrial sink.

"You seem oddly unconcerned that you are a murder suspect," Holmes says deliberately loud, his voice echoing in the room. From the corner of his eye he sees Watson react, her arm darting out to touch Lavonia Crawford on the wrist. An odd gesture, conferring an implied friendship—or at least friendliness. For a moment Holmes is baffled, but then Lavonia Crawford's body language changes completely, her defensive posture evaporating as she leans toward Watson and says _sotto voce_, "Perhaps we can talk outside?"

Watson cuts her eyes at him, a warning to let her take the lead. Pressing his lips together, Holmes follows as she and Lavonia Crawford head outside, Mycroft bringing up the rear.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Watson says, "Ms. Crawford, you know why you are a suspect, don't you? John DeRossi wrote a bad review about your recipe right before he was murdered."

The chef crosses her arms and lets out an audible huff.

"So that means I did it? People are entitled to their opinions, even stupid, uninformed ones. I wouldn't kill someone just because he didn't like my cooking." A wry grin slides across her face and she adds, "Or I might…but I wouldn't use a gun. Extra lard in the biscuits, maybe—give him a heart attack." She laughs then, a low humorless chuckle.

Feeling a wave of impatience, Holmes starts to speak but again Watson interrupts him.

"We want to help you," she says, "but until we have some proof that you weren't in New York when DeRossi was killed—"

"Look," Lavonia Crawford says, uncrossing her arms, "I already told you. I was at home. I didn't see anyone all week. I worked in my garden and cooked and slept and watched TV reruns. And that's all. It was my vacation and I spent it like I wanted to. Alone."

Not how Holmes would spend a holiday, but he understands the appeal of being alone. Indeed, until Watson moved into the brownstone, he couldn't imagine wanting to share quarters with anyone. Now, however, when she's out for a few hours—a coffee date with her friend Emily, brunch with her mother—Holmes feels uneasy if he can't call or text her.

Which reminds him—

"Your phone," he says. "You have one?"

Lavonia Crawford gives him a quizzical look. "A phone? Of course."

Putting her hand in her pocket, she pulls out a smartphone and holds it up.

"Did you call anyone during your week off?"

'Sure, but what does that prove?"

"Maybe nothing," Watson says. Angling her face towards Holmes she says, "Even if we do have the cell phone tower records, that doesn't prove her whereabouts. Someone else could have used her phone."

"I don't understand," Lavonia Crawford says, glancing at Mycroft.

"Mobile phones rely on signal towers to work," he says. "Your mobile carrier has a record of which tower boosted your mobile phone signal and when."

"Which means we know when your phone was used and where," Watson adds. "But it isn't definitive proof that you were the one using it."

"May I see your phone?" Holmes asks. With a shrug, Lavonia Crawford hands it to him.

Like most smartphones, this one has a camera—and like most smart phone users, Lavonia Crawford has stored hundreds of photographs on her camera roll. The photographs are time stamped—and when the GPS feature of the phone is turned on, place-stamped as well. Scrolling through the pictures, Holmes feels a burst of satisfaction as one photograph swims into view.

"Here," he says, flipping the phone around and holding it up. "This is your alibi."

"It's just a picture of a leaf," Watson says.

Clearly Watson needs another cup of coffee. Or a better night's sleep. Or fewer distractions. She's off her game if she misses the significance of the photograph. He waggles the camera at her.

"A leaf," she repeats, peering at the photograph. "A big green leaf that someone's holding."

"Not just any leaf," Holmes says, "but a _Brassica oleracea_ leaf from the _Acephala_ subgroup, so called because the leaves do not form a head but grow in loose bundles. More commonly known as collards or collard greens, a staple of Southern cuisine. Your speciality, I take it," he says and Lavonia Crawford nods.

"You aren't going to find anyone cooking soul food who doesn't know how to cook collards a dozen ways," she says, "but I can cook them a hundred ways. And grow them, too. That's my garden you're looking at in that picture."

"And your recipe for collard dolmades that John DeRossi called a travesty."

"So? He didn't like them. Lots of people do."

"He wrote that collards are a vile substitution for the traditional grape leaves used in dolmades, that collards are only fit to be cooked down into traditional pot liquor."

"I know what he wrote," Lavonia Crawford says, her face pinched, her eyes narrowed. "But I didn't kill him. I was home—working in my garden."

At some point during every interrogation Holmes has a moment of clarity when he knows whether or not someone is telling the truth. Years of studying vocal inflections and body language have given him plenty of practice in deducing someone's degree of truthfulness. Everything he knows tells him that this woman isn't a murderer. Eliminating her from the list of suspects, however, is proving difficult.

"Can I see that a minute?" Watson says, holding out her hand for the phone. Holmes places it in her palm.

Turning to Lavonia Crawford, she says, "This picture of your garden...this is you holding the collards. This is your hand. The scar on your thumb is barely visible, but it's there."

"So? My sister runs an organic farm on Wadmalaw Island. She and I have a competition about who can grow the best vegetables, and we send pictures back and forth all the time. It doesn't mean anything."

"It means that you have proof that you were at your home the afternoon of the murder," Holmes says. "The only way you could have gotten to New York in time to kill John DeRossi is by flying. It should be a simple matter to check the available flight schedules and passenger lists."

"Go right ahead," Lavonia Crawford says, reaching for the handle of the kitchen door. "Now if you don't mind—and even if you do—I have lunch to get started."

"Right," Holmes says. Turning to Watson, he says, "Since Ms. Crawford is no longer a suspect, our next task is clear."

"Talk to the owner of the shrimping company?" Watson says. Holmes opens his mouth to reply but Mycroft steps between them and opens the door back into the kitchen. Holmes and Watson follow him through the kitchen and into the dining area.

"Surely that can wait until we've eaten," Mycroft says, waving his hand at one of the tables. A waiter hurries forward and sets menus at each place setting. "Lavonia makes some of the best shrimp and grits in the Lowcountry. You can think of it as research before we talk to the fishermen who actually catch them."

Holmes tilts his head in annoyance. The game is afoot, particularly now that they've narrowed the list of suspects to one—the owner of the shrimp fishery. The sooner they talk to him, the sooner they will know if they have, indeed, caught the killer—or if they are back to the drawing board. The old impatience he feels when he follows a lead makes the idea of stopping for anything distressing, including food. Recognizing the feeling as an_ obsession_—albeit in the service of justice—doesn't make it easier to resist.

Still, Holmes looks closely at Watson's face. Her brows are knit, her freckles more pronounced than usual, her underlying pallor a symptom of exhaustion or hunger. He recalls the last time she looked this way—at the barbecue restaurant before they had their row.

Mycroft faces his brother full on. "Sherlock, I know you are eager to head out, but perhaps—"

Now it's Holmes' turn to get the jump on his brother.

"A meal would be nice," he says abruptly. "No telling when we will have another chance to pause for sustenance."

Mycroft looks surprised. Watson looks delighted.

Good on both counts. There's something satisfying about wrong-footing his brother and keeping him off balance.

Almost as satisfying as Watson's smile as she settles into a chair and opens up the menu, her face bright with anticipation and gratitude.

**A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading! Double thanks to everyone who reads and reviews. Triple thanks to everyone who reads, reviews, and recommends this little story to other readers. Thanks for spreading the word! I'm worried that "Elementary" isn't getting enough love or attention to warrant another season! **


	8. Something Fishy

**Chapter Eight: Something Fishy**

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, just their mischief.**

As soon as Joan opens the car door, she smells the sea. Or rather, the estuary called Shem Creek—salty and not unpleasantly muddy. The creek empties into the Cooper River on the east side of the Charleston Harbor opposite the historic downtown. Most of the commercial fishermen moor their boats here. The shrimp fishery mentioned in John DeRossi's review is housed in a squat metal warehouse near the mouth of the creek.

Outside the building a thickset man wearing green canvas work coveralls and a dark baseball cap watches as Joan, Sherlock, and Mycroft exit the car and walk up the oyster shell path. Joan doesn't claim to be an expert at reading body language, but this man definitely looks defensive. No, not just defensive. Shifty. Irritated. His hands are on his hips, a frown on his face.

Probably to head off an unfriendly welcome, Mycroft hurries on and holds out his hand. The man in coveralls extends his own slowly, reluctantly.

"Mr. Jones? We met several months ago. Mycroft Holmes. I was with Travis Wilkerson. This is my brother, Sherlock, and his associate Joan Watson. We want to ask you a few questions."

"So you said when you called," the man says. His eyes flick rapidly between Joan and Sherlock. Despite herself, Joan shivers.

Mycroft motions toward her. "Joan, Sherlock, this is Linwood Jones. He owns Carolina Fishery, the largest shrimping fleet in South Carolina."

"One of the only remaining shrimping fleets in South Carolina," Linwood Jones says, his voice laced with dark anger. "And maybe not in business that long, either."

"That seems unlikely," Sherlock says. Linwood Jones turns his gaze on him. "If you are without competition as you said—"

"Because everyone is being driven out. The local shrimpers can't compete with the foreign farm-raised market."

Sherlock shifts his feet. "But wild caught shrimp are superior in taste and texture, not to mention less contaminated with antibiotics and carcinogens."

"Tell that to the guys who write those reviews," Jones says.

"Such as John DeRossi," Sherlock says. "You read his review that mentioned your company?"

Linwood Jones almost spits out his next words. "So what? That doesn't prove anything."

"No one's accusing you of anything," Mycroft says swiftly. Joan sees Sherlock frown in reaction.

"It does, however," Sherlock interjects, "suggest a possible motive for murder. DeRossi names your company as the source of inferior shrimp—"

"Not just inferior shrimp," Linwood Jones says loudly, "but illegally caught shrimp. He said I don't use TED nets—"

"Turtle excluder devices," Sherlock says for Joan's benefit. "Grates installed at the entrance of nets to keep large sea creatures out." She's heard of them before but she doesn't mind Sherlock's detailed cataloguing of information for her. He's told her more than once that his recitations are as much for his own benefit as for hers, helping him organize his thoughts by speaking aloud. "It may be your most valuable contribution, Watson," he told her early in their relationship. She hadn't taken offense at that either, remembering how she'd bored her friends and family when she was in medical school, using them as sounding boards when she was learning so much new material.

Turning to Linwood Jones, Sherlock says, "Do you? Use TED nets?"

"Of course I do. Look, I can prove it."

He takes off suddenly toward the dock where a large trawler is tied up to metal bollards. Folded upright in the center of the boat are the long booms that when extended drag a large net on either side. Green and red nets hang limp and empty along the booms. In the back of the trawler is a much smaller net on a tackle block swaying in the wind.

Coming up to the edge of the cement dock, Sherlock stuffs his hands in his pockets and surveys the boat, craning his neck up and squinting into the sun. Joan follows his gaze and lifts her hand to point.

"The turtle devices," she says, noticing the metal grates near the mouth of the nets. Sherlock nods.

"You use that smaller net as well when you are shrimping?" he asks. Linwood Jones huffs loudly, the noise a cross between exasperation and disbelief.

"Of course," he says. "It takes hours to fill the main nets. We check that small net every 15 minutes to see what we are catching. If it fills up fast, we cut our trawl time so we don't crowd our catch in the nets, squashing it. If we aren't catching much in the small net, we know to stay out longer."

"There are no turtle devices on that net," Sherlock says. Linwood Jones frowns.

"Because it's too small for one," he says. "Besides, we check it so often that if a turtle does get caught in it, we release it before it drowns."

Somewhere—probably in elementary school—Joan remembers learning that sea turtles are creatures with lungs, needing to surface regularly to breathe, like dolphins and whales. She tries to imagine a large swimming loggerhead, but a mental picture of landlocked little Clyde makes her grin instead.

"Perhaps this is what John DeRossi was referring to in his review," Mycroft offers. Linwood Jones shakes his head.

"He also said I was shrimping out of season. That's a lie, too, and one that can get me shut down."

"Why do you think he accused you of it?" Joan asks, and Jones shrugs.

"He said the shrimp were the wrong variety for this time of year. Said they were brown shrimp too fresh to be frozen. Shows what he knows. We process and freeze most of our catch at sea, only bringing in a small part fresh to the local market." Motioning toward Mycroft, he adds, "The shrimp your guy prepared in New York were flash frozen before they were shipped. And they were in season."

Once again Sherlock turns to Joan with the air of a professor lecturing a student. "These coastal waters are the home of three varieties of shrimp: pink, brown, and white. While abundant in the gulf, pink shrimp are rare in this part of the Atlantic, accounting for less than 10% of the annual haul. Brown shrimp are the most abundant and are primarily caught during the summer months."

"I remember seeing the trawlers off the coast of Myrtle Beach when my family came down," Joan says.

"Indeed," Sherlock says. "Shrimp trawlers in this area work in 12 to 15 feet of water and drag the bottom where the local shrimp are most abundant. This time of year white shrimp are in season—prized for their mild flavor, as evidenced by the spike in retail price."

"Anyone who knows shrimp knows each kind has a different flavor," Jones says, heading back toward the warehouse-like building.

Mycroft turns to Joan and says, "Brown shrimp have a tang of bromine that is more marked than other varieties, but all wild caught shrimp have some. They get it from their diets. That's why farm-raised shrimp taste flat by comparison."

"Interesting but irrelevant," Sherlock says dismissively. Joan sees a flicker of annoyance cross Mycroft's features. Sherlock goes on. "I'm more interested in where you were the night John DeRossi was killed, Mr. Jones. If, as you have said, your business was put in danger by DeRossi's assertions, you had a motive for murder."

Again Joan feels a shiver. Linwood Jones stops in his tracks and turns to face them.

"Because of what that idiot wrote, the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources has been here inspecting my nets. The feds are looking over my ship logs and sales receipts. I could be shut down. At the very least, I'm wasting my time proving I didn't do anything wrong while the white shrimp season slips away without any of my boats in the water."

"But you did do something wrong."

Jones rounds on Sherlock so swiftly that Joan thinks for a moment that the men are going to hit each other.

"What are you talking about?"

"You threatened John DeRossi."

For a moment Linwood Jones' eyes are wild, and then with a supreme effort, he breathes slowly and says, "You can't prove that."

"Not at present," Sherlock says. "But you _were_ the last person to call DeRossi's phone before he was killed. His phone company provided his phone records to the NYPD this morning—who in turn gave them to me. It's time for you to explain where you were that night."

A moment passes when Joan wonders if Linwood Jones is going to bolt. He closes his eyes briefly, as if to better concentrate on some internal debate. Then opening his eyes, he says, "I did call him, and I might have suggested that I would hurt him, but I didn't. Someone beat me to it."

"So you were in New York?"

"I was on the way. My business partner sent me a link to the review. We both knew what it meant. Lots of time wasted, our high-end customers suspicious of us now. Shrimping isn't just a job—it's a way of life, and we're losing it."

"You flew from Charleston?" Joan asks, and Jones shakes his head.

"I drove. I didn't know DeRossi had been killed until a day later, when I got to New York."

"Presumably you drove because you could not carry a firearm with you on a plane," Sherlock says.

"Okay, I did have my gun with me, but I wasn't planning on killing the guy. Scare him, yeah. Shake him up, sure. But I wouldn't have killed him. At least, I don't think so. I did call him once I got on the road, but I was only in Virginia when he was killed. I got too sleepy to keep driving and checked into a hotel somewhere close to the border."

"We can check the cell tower records," Joan says. Even as she says it, she knows that won't be sufficient. Lavonia Crawford's cell phone records weren't enough to support her alibi that she had been home. Without the photograph of her hand holding the collards, she would still be a suspect.

"What kind of hotel?" Joan asks. At her side, she can tell that Sherlock understands the importance of her question. He bobs once on his heels and says, "A small mom-and-pop outfit? Or a national chain? Which kind was it?"

Linwood Jones is momentarily flustered. "Uh, a Holiday Inn Express, I think. I still have the receipt."

"A receipt only proves that someone calling himself Linwood Jones stayed there. However, almost all large hotel chains routinely use closed-circuit video surveillance on their grounds—particularly at the front desk and lobby areas. Given the address, we should be able to determine if you, in fact, were where you say you were when John DeRossi was killed, since you will appear in the time-stamped tapes."

Even if she couldn't read body language at all, Joan knows at once by the relief in his face, by the way his shoulders slump like being relieved of a burden, Linwood Jones didn't kill anyone.

# # #

"You know," Mycroft says from the back seat of the car, "I hate to admit it, but I feel disappointed that that man wasn't a killer."

Joan darts a glance in her rearview mirror and meets Mycroft's eyes. With a start she realizes that his eyes are the same color as Sherlock's—hazel, more green than blue, though his eyelashes and brows are a shade lighter than his younger brother's. In the mirror she can't tell if he is smiling or grimacing, though the corners of his eyes are crinkled with some emotion.

From the passenger seat, Sherlock says, "Further proof your presence wasn't necessary."

This doesn't bode well for the trip home. Sherlock's already prickly about Mycroft riding back to New York with them instead of flying. "Be reasonable," Joan had said earlier, interceding when Sherlock pitched what could only charitably be called a fit. "You can stand to be with your brother for two days."

Now Joan isn't so sure. Sherlock sits slumped in the seat, his arms crossed like a recalcitrant teenager.

With a sigh, she decides to steer the conversation into calmer waters. "There's something that's been bothering me the entire time," she says. "All of the people we've come South to see had reason to be furious with John DeRossi, but murdering him after the review was online meant that the only motive could have been revenge. I mean, the damage was done, right? Their reputations were already going to suffer from the review. What if we've been looking at this all the wrong way? Backwards?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock says, uncrossing his arms and sitting up, his attention piqued.

"What if this isn't about punishing John DeRossi at all. What if it is about benefiting from his death? What if the murderer had something to _gain_ by killing him?"

"His apartment was not a draw," Sherlock says. "Expensive, not rent-controlled."

"And he was self-employed, so it's not like someone in a company was competing for his job," Joan adds.

Sherlock flicks his shoulders up, as if shaking off a fly. "Watson, you may have solved the mystery."

"I don't—"

"John DeRossi's food blog was one of the most widely-read independent reviews in New York. What will happen to it now?"

Joan shrugs. "I hadn't thought about it. I guess—nothing. It was his blog. Nobody else can post anything on it."

"Just so. It will, for all intents and purposes, cease to exist, except for the archived pages that will forever muck up the Internet. Its demise, however, opens up a niche in the market. Inevitably, someone else will fill the need for a snarky, ill-informed food blog and try to capture DeRossi's former readers."

All at once Joan knows where Sherlock is going with this. Her heart hammers in her chest in excitement and she squeezes the steering wheel so hard that she feels her fingers sting.

"Another blogger," she says. "The murderer could have been a blogger wanting to take over DeRossi's audience."

"A less-popular food writer," Sherlock says. "Someone competing all along and waiting in the wings for a chance to rise to the top of the heap."

Easing her grip on the steering wheel, Joan says, "That could be anybody." The euphoria of a moment ago evaporates.

"Not anybody," Sherlock says, leaning forward. "Maybe just thousands of somebodies. Someone familiar with the New York restaurant scene enough to post online reviews—"

"That could take forever!" Joan says. She has an image of scrolling through the restaurant suggestions on Trip Advisor and Yahoo Travel. The killer could be someone who posts there frequently, hoping to expand into a more lucrative market.

Or it could be someone already writing for an established food journal, wanting to eliminate the competition for readers. She feels her spirits sag.

A rush of warm air, her hair stirring near her ear, and Joan realizes that Mycroft is sitting forward, his face peering over the seat.

"I might be of some use after all," he says. "I keep up with all the bloggers and reviewers. I can help sort through them, tell you which are serious and which can be ignored."

That's true! Mycroft can save them lots of time and trouble. If only Sherlock doesn't object…she hazards a glance in his direction to take in his mood.

His expression is impenetrable—his eyes straight ahead, his lips lightly pursed, his nostrils flared, as if his mental activity is costing him a great deal of energy,

Which it probably is. Mycroft, too, seems to recognize the effort his brother is making. Keeping his hand on the seatback, Mycroft waits, his breathing soft and steady.

Joan drives on, the flat Lowcountry of South Carolina spooling past outside the windows as they head north. Sherlock doesn't speak again until an hour later when Joan pulls into a gas station and stops the car next to a pump.

"Very well," he says when she reaches for the door handle. "Mycroft can stay at the brownstone while we finish the investigation. But keep your sleeping arrangements out of my purview. Better yet, keep them beyond reproach. Is that understood?"

With a flourish he opens his door before she can exit the car, circling around to pump the gas, something she's never seen him do before. Looking into the rearview mirror, she sees Mycroft looking at her, and again she is frustrated by being able to see only his eyes, his reaction impossible to gauge with such a small slice of view.

Is that amusement in his eyes? Or regret? Or something more subtle, perhaps—a sort of wistfulness that she's noticed in his expression when he doesn't think she's looking in his direction?

No way to know—at least not here and now. The car gives a tiny shake as Sherlock unscrews the gas cap and starts the pump, the sound of fuel rushing into the tank the only noise in the car.

It's going to be a long trip home indeed.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Thanks for reviewing! Thanks for posting links on Tumblr and other social media to help readers find this story!**


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